The Red Skull

VIII — Death Decoy

Buttons Zortell would have experienced doubts had he been sitting in on what was transpiring in Monk’s penthouse laboratory. Buttons’ long-distance telephone call to Arizona was not the only one.

Doc Savage was in touch with the editor of the leading Phoenix newspaper.

He was seeking to learn something of the individual whose name Bandy Stevens had cried out in his death throes — Nate Raff.

“Nate Raff!” repeated the editor after Doc had put his query. “Do you mean ‘Tough Nate’ Raff — president of the Mountain Desert Construction Company? He’s the only Nate Raff I know of.”

“Can you tell me something about him?” Doc requested.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. How did he get his name ‘Tough Nate’?”

“Simply because he’s plenty hard. Construction men out in this country have ‘hair on their chests’. And Nate Raff is the furriest of the lot! He’s a man-driver! And he has a sharp business head.”

“Is he honest?”

“As far as I know. The Mountain Desert Construction Company is a 3-partner concern. But Tough Nate runs it, though.”

“Who are the other partners?”

“Richard O’Melia is one. He is construction superintendent in charge of actual work. O’Melia has killed a man-or-two in his time. But he may be honest enough. He didn’t go to the Pen for any of the killings. The other partner is Ossip Keller — the brains of the lot. He handles surveys, cost estimates, and makes the detailed plans of all their jobs.”

“You seem to know a great deal about these men,” Doc suggested. “Have they been in the news recently?”

“I’ll say! They’re throwing a big power dam across the upper end of Red Skull canyon. They got a lot of publicity because they’re financing themselves. They’re building the dam — using only their own money — for the avowed purpose of keeping their employees at work. I don’t think it’s entirely generosity on their part, though. They hope to make the dam pay by selling electrical power.”

“Any scandal connected with the enterprise?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Why do you ask that?”

“Merely curious.”

“Say — what did you say your name is? I didn’t catch it.”

“Doc Savage.”

An explosive ejaculation came over the wire!

The newspaper editor demanded eagerly: “What’s up? Be a sport and give me the low-down!”

“What makes you think there is a low-down?”

“There must be! Tough Nate Raff left Phoenix last night on the regular passenger plane. He told one of our reporters he was going to New York to see you — Doc Savage!”

“That is news to me,” Doc said dryly.

Before the conversation could continue, there was some kind of a commotion in the distant newspaper office during which several voices shouted and the editor left the phone. Doc could not catch the words.

The Arizona editor suddenly returned to the phone. He was excited.

“The passenger plane in which Tough Nate Raff was riding crashed in flames in New Mexico!” he shouted. “Everybody aboard was killed! We just got the flash over the press wires!”

Half-an-hour later, Doc Savage was reading an account of the tragedy in the latest editions of the New York newspapers. The sheets had hit the streets quickly with the news.

He obtained one noteworthy bit of information. The bodies of those aboard the ill-fated airliner had been burned beyond identification.

Cause of the fire and crash was unknown as yet. A government aeronautical inspector was en route to the scene to investigate. A horse wrangler on a ranch — while engaged at his early morning task — had come upon the wreckage. The sound of a crash during the night had awakened cowboys on the ranch. But they had dismissed this as the wrangler’s pony kicking the corral bars. The sound, however, placed the hour of the disaster at about 3:00 in the morning.

According to this time, the plane had been flying nearly an hour behind its usual schedule.

The craft had struck in a canyon which accounted for the flames not being seen.

“There is nothing to indicate foul play in connection with the wreck… as yet,” Doc remarked.

Monk muttered, “I’d like to lay a bet with somebody that the plane was crashed to murder tough Nate Raff.”

“There is no proof.”

“Maybe not. But the wreck is too much of a coincidence.”

“It might be wise to remember the plane was almost an hour behind schedule when disaster befell it,” Doc suggested.

Monk eyed Doc questioningly. But the big Bronze Man did not amplify his statement or even give his reason for making the remark.

Monk would like to have heard an explanation. Doc had a faculty for picking out suspicious circumstances which later proved significant.

A bit later, the telephone rang.

Monk answered it… and emitted a squall of delight!

“It’s my secretary!” he shouted, then barked into the phone: “Are you safe?”

“No!” the young woman said rapidly. “I’m still a prisoner! But this phone was behind a box and they didn’t notice it. They don’t know I’m talking.”

“Where are you?”

“In a vacant tenement building on Seashore Street. I saw the number — it’s 1113. I’m on the ground floor. The whole building is empty. Can you come… Sh-h-h-h! My guard is returning, I think.”

A sharp denoted the replacing of the distant receiver.

Slamming down his own instrument, Monk lumbered for the door! Doc and the others trailed him. In the elevator going down, Monk gave them the text of the conversation.

“We may be able to nab the whole gang!” Monk chortled.

His homely features were a network of grin wrinkles. He was more elated than he would have let his friends know. Especially the sharp-tongued Ham who was always riding him anyway.

Monk thought a lot of his attractive blonde secretary. She was the most efficient young woman he had met. And one of the prettiest!

There was another reason why she had a big hold on his affections. She liked Monk! This was no small item considering how homely Monk was. Monk’s features were so “pleasantly ugly” that they scared most young ladies.

In truth, Monk was more than a little in love with Lea Aster. He did not admit this though, even to himself. The mere thought of settling down to the peaceful existence of a married man made Monk shiver. Excitement and Danger had become a necessity with the homely fellow. Without them, he would be like a fish out of water.

They wedged into a taxicab for their ride with the exception of Doc Savage who rode outside on the running board where his sharp eyes kept a lookout for danger. This was a procedure Doc habitually followed when trouble threatened. Too, his mighty bronze form was a “living badge” which insured police noninterference.

Such a badge was needed in the wild rush of their cab across town.

They would not have gotten many blocks without it for they broke all speed laws!

The 1100 block on Seashore Street was walled with 5- and 6-story tenement buildings. Yet no soul resided within the confines of the block. The structures were shabby and had long since lived out their usefulness. A building corporation had bought the real estate as well as all leases and had ordered tenants out. Soon the structures would be razed to make room for a modern apartment development.

Doc and his men quitted their cab 2 blocks from the spot. Grim and anxious, Monk started forward. Doc halted him.

“Wait.”

Monk swallowed his impatience and rejoined the group. Long ago, he had learned the wisdom of obeying Doc’s slightest wish. Not that Doc was a stickler for discipline. It was simply that the reasons for what he did were always sound.

Leaving the others behind, Doc advanced alone.

He did not go near the front door of 1113 — the house where Lea Aster had said she was being held. Instead, he scaled a low fence and entered a series of filthy courts behind the buildings.

Never showing himself to the windows of 1113, Doc entered an adjacent tenement. Rickety stairs led him upward and a squeaking hatch let him out on the roof. He crossed to the roof of the structure Lea Aster had named. A skylight gave under his sharp tug.

He swung through and dropped. His landing was noiseless, padded by the spring of tremendous leg muscles.

No sound met his ears. He moved down, a bronze ghost of a figure in the murky halls and stairways.

The building could not have been emptied of its tenants more than a few days ago since telephones had not yet been removed. But already it reeked the ratty smell of age.

Paint and paper was scabby on the walls. Patches of plaster had fallen, scattering gray fragments which would crunch loudly if stepped upon.

Doc reached the 4th floor… descended to the 3rd… then the 2nd. No stirrings, no conversation reached him. Somewhere a lump of plaster fell noisily. Rats scampered. Outside, the traffic on near-by streets made muffled murmurs.

A metallic wraith, Doc glided halfway down the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor. He paused and listened. His hearing was trained, sharp.

He caught the tick of a watch. The sound was rapid, indicating by its speed a woman’s wristwatch.

Doc knew that Lea Aster always wore a small timepiece upon her wrist.

The ticking emanated from a large room opening off the foot of the staircase. Doc did not approach this chamber at once but stood in the lower hallway for several moments.

He went to the front door moving slowly, his golden eyes roving steadily.

Through a door and across a room at the side, he saw a box on the floor. There was dust on the floor of the room. And this bore marks which instantly told him the young woman prisoner had been kept there for a time.

Doc approached the box. Behind it was a telephone. He lifted the box. There was a deposit of dust under it as thick as that on the floor of the rest of the room.

A curious glitter played in the flaky-gold pools of the big Bronze Man’s eyes. For a brief instant, his strange, eerie trilling sound seemed to throb through the stuffy, dead atmosphere of the room.

The dust under the box had told Doc a story… and given him a warning!

The box had been placed there recently — no doubt by Buttons — for the purpose of making a pretense at hiding the phone. That meant the call of Monk’s pretty secretary had been arranged.

She had been tricked into making it!

Expert at fathoming criminal thought processes, Doc Savage knew the probable explanation. He had been decoyed here.

That meant there was a death trap somewhere in the abandoned tenement.

Moving slowly and watching each step as though he were barefooted on a path strewn with thorns, Doc approached the room from whence came the watch ticking. He glanced in.

Lea Aster’s wristwatch lay on the floor in plain sight.

Entering with steps so hesitant and careful they were like a funeral tread, Doc circled the watch.

He did not touch the watch for he suddenly knew that to do so would mean horrible death!

It was grisly and ingenious, this death trap Buttons Zortell had set. It was a scheme which seemed impossible of failure…

…yet hardly that since Doc had fathomed its secret.

Leaving the watch undisturbed, Doc conducted a rapid search of the tenement.

He began at the top floor. His ransacking was barren of results until he came to a ground-floor room directly opposite the one which held the telephone. This was window-less and had apparently been a kitchen.

A number of window sashes were stacked here. Doc had found such sashes in other rooms. Windows had been removed from the building and stacked, preparatory to being taken away by whatever salvage company had bought them.

Only one sash in the kitchen aroused Doc’s interest. It — of all the collection — was wiped free of dust. Noting this, the Bronze Man scrutinized it closely.

Then he observed that the dust on the kitchen floor had been scuffed up considerably.

Doc carried the dustless sash to the street, placing it carefully against the curb.

He re-entered the deserted tenement and strode to the room which held the watch. He did not touch the timepiece.

From an inner pocket, he drew a small object — a common firecracker of the dime-a-package variety. This was capable of making a report like a gunshot. It was fitted with an extra long fuse. Doc sometimes found it convenient to have a “shot” sound occur at one point while he was at another. He carried the firecrackers for this purpose.

He placed it carefully beside the watch… lighted it… and quit the tenement.

Picking the sash of glass from its resting place on the curb, he ran down the street, carrying it as though it were very precious.

Behind him, the Earth seemed to fly to pieces! The pavement convulsed under the concussion of a terrific explosion!

Smoke and debris spouted from the sash-less tenement windows. Bricks fell out of the walls.

Should anyone have been in the vacant building, there was no question but that they would have died.